The Birthday Gift
by weepingangelofnewnewyork
Summary: Natasha wants to give Clint a birthday gift, but something goes horribly wrong. Clintasha one-shot, could be platonic or romantic. Trigger warning: brief and undetailed mention of domestic violence.


_First Clintasha fic! Yay! I've actually co-written some Clintasha roleplays with my sister, eponineoswinoswald221b, and they're posted on her profile. They're filed under a single story called Clintasha Roleplay, if you're interested. Enjoy!_

 _~Xx_

* * *

Clint dragged himself out of his car, weary after a long day filling out mission reports and bills. He was looking forward to getting back to his apartment and getting two of his favorite gifts: coffee and sleep. A perfect end to an otherwise sucky birthday. Not that birthdays were ever enjoyable, anyway. As he pulled out of the parking lot, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Natasha.

 _[10:45 p.m. Natasha.]_ You can't come home.

Clint frowned at this cryptic message.

 _[10:46 p.m. Clint.]_ Why not?

 _[10:46 p.m. Natasha.]_ Your apartment complex burned down.

Clint stared at the new message in horror. He'd only been a part of Strike Team Delta for six months, but it didn't even take that long for someone to figure out that his partner was not the type for cheap jokes.

 _[10:47 p.m. Clint.]_ Where am I supposed to go?

 _[10:47 p.m. Natasha.]_ Can you come pick me up from the ER? I got a little burnt and they're not letting me out.

Clint forcefully jerked the steering wheel to the left, almost missing the turn for the hospital. An angry driver blared his horn loudly.

 _[10:48 p.m. Clint.]_ On my way. You ok?

 _[10:49 p.m. Natasha.]_ Talk to you later, Barton. Texting while driving is illegal.

Clint gave a frustrated sigh.

#####

Five minutes later, he arrived at the hospital and breathlessly asked for Natasha's whereabouts at the front desk. He was given the room number and found the room quickly, but paused outside the door, mentally preparing himself for what might greet his eyes. Then, he knocked on the door.

"Come in," Natasha called, and Clint eased the door open. Natasha was sitting up straight on the bed, her legs hanging over the side. Clint was relieved to see that her injuries were minimal – both her arms and hands were bandaged up to the elbows, there was another bandage covering a cut on her forehead, her face was slightly flushed from the heat, and she was holding an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Clint took in all of this in an instant, but he stopped short as the rest of her appearance began to sink in.

"Don't say a single thing about my physical appearance unless it pertains to my injuries," Natasha commanded, her voice muffled by the mask.

"I wasn't going to," Clint responded, staring. "What is there to comment on? You've just got on jeans and a t-shirt. And… an apron." Natasha glared. "And what's that on your nose?" Clint came closer. "Is that soot? Mixed with, what, flour?"

Natasha quickly wiped at the bridge of her nose. Soot smeared over her cheek below her eye, making her look like an angry little Russian football player. Clint broke into a grin.

"It's not funny," Natasha complained, pulling the oxygen mask off over her head and hopping down from the bed. Her long, curly hair, normally so wild, had been tamed into a loose bun that was now coming out, and she stood in front of Clint with her arms crossed, glaring at him from behind a few stray curls.

"I'm sorry," Clint apologized, grinning. "I'm glad you seem to be fine. It's just… what were you doing when the fire broke out?"

"Baking," Natasha responded crisply.

"In my apartment?"

"Yes," she said defensively.

"But why –"

"Hold on," she interrupted. "They'll be back soon to check on me. They want me to stay all night, but I'm fine. I want to go home. Can you smuggle me out of here?"

#####

Having successfully "smuggled" Natasha from the hospital, Clint drove the both of them to her apartment building, which was only a few blocks from his former one. Thankfully, Clint had a suitcase of clothes in the trunk of his car, as he and Natasha were scheduled to go undercover in Boston the following morning, so he changed from his work clothes while Natasha got cleaned up in the bathroom.

When he finished, he wandered to the window and peered out. The sky was lit with the dying remains of the apartment fire, and Clint could barely make out the flashing lights of the fire trucks below. He watched the commotion for a little while, then crossed the room and settled onto the couch to watch the news coverage.

"The apartment fire on Thirteenth Street is finally dying down," the news anchor was saying when Clint switched on the set. "It was not a very large fire – only three people had minor injuries, and there were no casualties. Officials are saying that the fire started on the sixth floor in someone's kitchen. Other than that…"

Clint muted the TV when Natasha came out of the bathroom dressed in her pajamas, her wet hair draped over one shoulder. Clint stared at her, his lips parted slightly in shock.

"What?" she demanded.

"I – I live on the sixth floor," Clint said slowly. Natasha seemed confused for a minute, then looked from Clint to the TV, which was still showing coverage from outside Clint's old apartment, and realization dawned on her features. Carefully, she sunk onto the couch next to Clint and stared down at her hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

Clint was silent for a moment, deep in thought. "Natasha," he said finally, "did you burn down my apartment?"

Natasha leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. "It was an accident," she admitted.

"Oh, that makes more sense. I was gonna say, you never struck me as the firebug type," said Clint jokingly, earning a glare from Natasha. "Seriously. How did you burn down an entire apartment building?"

Natasha sighed. "I was making you a birthday cake."

"You – what?"

"A cake," Natasha repeated mournfully. "I was making you a strawberry cake for your birthday. I remembered from your SHIELD files that today was your birthday, and Agent Hill said that you loved strawberries, so I was going to make you a strawberry cake. But I've never been to a real party and I wasn't sure what to say to you, so I decided to make it at your apartment and just leave it on the counter with a note or something. But the cake wouldn't bake and it overflowed out of the pan and the batter caught on fire and someone called the fire department – Barton, are you _laughing?_ "

"I'm sorry, Natasha," said Clint, gasping for air. "It's just – that's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me on my birthday." Natasha looked dubious. "I'm serious, Natasha," Clint said gleefully, wiping the last few tears of laughter from his eyes. "I don't even like birthdays that much. Not since I turned ten, when my dad came home drunk, beat me for no reason, and burned all the presents my mom got me. But a whole strawberry cake? Gosh, Natasha—" he grinned at her, "—no one's ever done that for me before. And you know what else? No one's ever burned down my house, either. So thank you for a memorable birthday, Nat."

"Shut up, Barton," said Natasha, but she was hiding a smile, and she looked much happier than she had a few minutes before.

After that, Natasha brought out some ice cream from the freezer, and they ate it on the couch together and talked until the sun began to rise.

The next morning, they traveled to Boston for their first undercover op posing as a couple, which went much better than either of them thought it would.

Clint's new apartment room became the one just across the hall from Natasha's, and they always joked that it was a birthday gift from her.

But the best birthday gift, by far, was that he was finally getting to know Natasha Romanoff.

Clint decided that birthdays weren't so bad after all.


End file.
